


Branded With Your Curse

by adrift_me



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Hate Sex, M/M, Porn With Plot, Romance, Teague Lives, post-dh1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 10:29:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14767859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adrift_me/pseuds/adrift_me
Summary: The only thing that Teague Martin is certain of is that he was not meant to survive the trip to the Lighthouse. Poison was supposed to snake its way into his veins and betrayal was his undoing.But somehow, by a sheer miracle, he lived. And when you slip out of the Void's grasp by an inch, what does it matter, if you do other things to the Void's master?





	Branded With Your Curse

**Author's Note:**

> Written for an anon's prompt: Teague who is unexpectedly gentle to the Outsider, who in turn wants nothing but to be fucked already.
> 
> The idea of Teague Martin dying post-Lighthouse is absolutely upsetting to me and I just want a miracle to happen that will save him from Havelock's poison. So, there it is. I hope you all enjoy!
> 
> [Come chat with me on tumblr :)](https://a-driftamongopenstars.tumblr.com/ask)

Against all odds Teague finds himself awoken by a soft caress of water on his feet, seaweed tangling at the ankles. Where his boots are gone he cannot remember, neither can he understand why his arms and head ache so badly. He turns, wincing at the glory of the sun that blinds him, and inhales.

He was right, in the end. Havelock, that madman, that son of a bitch lost his mind, poisoned him, and if Teague wasn’t cautious, armed with a baggage of experience on his shoulders, hadn’t taken a counter medicine, he would have been dead.

But instead he is very much alive, feeling the world around him shine and breathe. There is a pier where Martin lies hidden within a shipment of crates, the stench of fish, overly tangy wines and rotten fruit seeping into his clothes. He shifts and scrambles up to sit with his back to one of the crates.

He knows he can’t stay here too long. If he is not in the Lighthouse, not victorious, it is most likely he and his compatriots have been disgraced and removed. Perhaps, by sheer miracle, it is Corvo Attano who did it. Teague wouldn’t be surprised, not from the many tirades the Outsider has sung about him, not after seeing what the man is capable of. Teague hates him, genuinely, for the goodness of his heart. Because he is jealous a little that he has none of it in his own.

Keeping to the shadows, lurking and crawling behind the crates, Teague slowly crosses the docks, up the winding streets that are unnaturally empty. Either the plague has taken care of this district or the people are gone to celebrate, but it looks eerie, odd. Teague tries not to look around too much, scared of… anything, really. The dark shadows, the dead people, the possibility that he is hallucinating from poison and is about to die any moment soon.

Eventually he finds his way up the stairs of a clearly abandoned building, tossing aside old bits of wood and metal, broken whale oil lamps. There are signs of scavenging, of life, but it is all fading away.

When he gets to a reasonably clean level with a nice room without a balcony door, a hole in the wall glaring at him, the sky has gone to its dusky beauty. Peach sunset is magnificent, and right now Teague finds strength and energy to appreciate it. He slumps against the wall on an old mattress and gets started on a can of some fish that tastes like hagfish but looks nothing like it.

“The curtain has fallen, the final act is over, and yet Teague Martin is here for a coda,” a drawling scratchy voice pronounces, and Teague looks at the Outsider who appeared beside him a moment ago. The god’s posture is relaxed, one arm propping his head up, another gesturing vaguely in the air.

“Have you come to gloat?” Teague asks, throwing aside the empty can and wiping his mouth off.

“I have come to observe. You were heading towards an unfortunate end, returning to the nothing you’ve been born into, and yet you have survived. Such a turn of fate intrigues me,” the Outsider explains, turning his face to Teague and sneering a little, just from the corners of his mouth.

Perhaps, it’s the suddenly acquired love for life that makes Teague’s heart jump a little, lurch down to his stomach.

In this light, the Outsider looks infinitely beautiful. His face is softened by sunlight, and he doesn’t squint in its brightness. The black of his eyes is striking, surreal. Teague remembers looking in those eyes, hating them, and he still hates, oh those pools of blackness.

The Outsider flinches away from his reaching out hand, but only in a mild surprise.

“Have you traded your life for this, Teague? The ambrosial pleasures? The call of need?” The Outsider asks, and cradles Teague’s cheek in return. The touch is a little rough, firm, there is no gentleness in the way he holds. But Teague relishes it nonetheless. The little pain he endures is good and makes him feel calmer.

Even apart from that, he barely remembers last time someone caressed him.

It takes only a moment of hesitation before they lean in for a kiss, and the intentions couldn’t be more different. The Outsider’s lips are rough, demanding, inflicting, while Teague’s are wet and soft, his tongue already trying to coax the god’s mouth to open wider to let him in. And the Outsider does, though not before his teeth can clench on Martin’s lower lip and nibble.

The kiss breaks all boundaries that time sets up. There are no minutes passing, no seconds ticking, the time itself stopped existing when Teague kissed the Outsider. 

When they pull away from each other, it feels messy and sloppy, and there is a drip of saliva on Teague’s lip.

“You were never meant to have me, but you were never meant to survive either. Take me as you wish,” the Outsider says as Teague makes himself more comfortable, closer to the god. “But know that I will not soften the challenge or accomodate.”

“I have hated you for every minute I’ve known you,” Teague says, making a quick job of unzipping his own trousers and baring his legs. He wants to spare no time for the intricacy of seduction, not when the god is open and close to him, not when he wants him, not while he lives when he is meant to be dead. The Outsider lets him to roughly drag down his trousers as well and pull him into his lap to sit astride - their shirts, coats remain. It’s hot and heavy that way, but for some reason Teague doesn’t feel the need to get rid of it. At least not just yet.

“Your hate is futile, but rather amusing. You hit like a wave against the rocks, because this is all you know. You won’t learn better. See, I am rather honest with you, Teague,” the Outsider says with a smile, opening up his jacket.

“I might not change, but they say the waves soften the rocks,” Teague says and in his own words he falters, as do his hands. The Outsider looks at him, amused, the gleam of his eyes unkind. But he lets Teague wander dextrous fingers over the zips and buckles of his jacket, opening it up, allows him to perform a swift work over the line of buttons, making the shirt fall apart.

Teague looks, his breath taken away by the sheer view of the god astride him, of the perfection of his image. Touching it is a blasphemy, making love to it might just be his solace.

But there is more to the body than the flesh of it. There is the Outsider, a hated deity which inspires worship even despite that hate. Teague’s heart trembles when his fingers draw a soft line down the sternum, at which the Outsider whivers.

There is no breath in the Outsider’s chest to hitch, but his body stills at such a delicate touch. Even words seem to fail him, and Teague uses the moment to take a hold of his chin and pull the god closer for a kiss.

Only the Outsider finally struggles out of that gentleness. The Void unfurls emotionally around him.

“Spare me the dealings of your heart. I am here for one thing and one alone - to see where hatred and hopelessness leads you. And if we are to get the most out of this time, you had better hurry up and do something to me.”

“Oh I will,” Teague says, smiling a little at the god’s impatience. There is a whole storm of questions that worries his mind - why is the Outsider here, are they truly going to indulge in each other, what do they get out of it.

Teague knows one thing - the Outsider is right. He  _ is _ desperate and hopeless. What does it matter, making love to someone he hates? Right now he might as well love him, the only creature in the world that seems real. Teague, in his own place, feels like he is dead.

And, perhaps, to the world - he is.

They kiss again, the Outsider doing his best to bring Teague’s own impatient nature out, bruise his lips with bites, challenge him with a hot tongue. But there will be no submission. Instead, Teague is going to bring his own sweet torture. His hands take a hard grasp of the Outsider’s hips and he moves him a little, so that he can work him open. There is no oil to help, but the Outsider accommodates and Teague doesn’t know what it is that makes him slick and ready.

The Outsider’s voice is pleasantly raspy when he speaks.

“You… really are going for this. Does it make you feel more alive?” he asks, fidgeting as Teague’s finger works him, making him want for more. The god’s body trembles even as he tries to regain his haughty indifferent posture.

“It makes me feel less dead,” Teague replies, feeling that there is quite a difference in their statements. He adds another finger and delights in a groan the Outsider makes.

“More,” he demands, and Teague smiles at him.

The sun is setting but it is still bright enough to be a blinding golden disc around the Outsider, basking him in its warmth, his surreal shape - a darker silhouette. Light pours in through a doorless balcony. This place is eerily quiet, and Teague can hear the slickness, his own heartbeat, writhing of skin on skin.

“Fuck this,” the Outsider snaps, slapping Teague’s hand away and taking his cock in slender fingers. Teague throws his head back and laughs lightly, feeling drunk. His body, so alive, feels sensitive as the Outsider gives him rough stroking and it is even worse when he slips onto him.

“I am going to get what I want. And I expect, so are you,” the Outsider snarls, moving his hips on top of Teague, graceful sways, though tainted with how rough it is intended to be.

“Such is my hope,” he replies, too tired to do anything for the moment, merely relaxing back onto the old mattress, letting the Outsider get his share of pleasure, fucking onto the man and trying to get Teague to be just as rough. There will be none of it, however.

When pleasure settles to a degree of burning simmer, when the Outsider’s moans become abundant and wild, when Teague feels the grasp of god’s want is slipping, he takes matters in his own hands. Quite literally, a single rough gesture which almost excites the Outsider - Teague grabs at his hips and pushes him down onto his cock, as deep as the Outsider can take him.

There is groaning, and there is cursing, and then…

And then it stops.

“What in the Void’s name are you doing?” the Outsider mutters, trying to get Teague to move into him, buck up his hips, but Martin holds him quite insistently down. He does start moving his hips, but only a little.

“Let us indulge,” Teague smirks, looking at the god whose face is contorted in painful pleasure.

“Move faster then. Fuck me.”

“No, let’s make love to each other. A dying man’s request.”

“Your claims of death are ridiculous and untrue, leave that blackmail to those who will buy it. Your body is capable and your mind is enthralled by me. The Void has no grasp of you, but I do. So fuck me,” the Outsider leans to place hands on Teague’s shoulder, squeezing hard. It’s a leverage that lets the god get some more movement to drive him up the pleasant peak.

“So much talk, do you never get tired? Is it not what would give you some peace away from the Void? Which may have no grasp on me, but certainly has on you,” Teague says, narrowing his eyes.

The Outsider’s face falters. He looks at Teague with a split moment of anger, and the man almost expects him to disappear, but the god remains. His hips relax a little, legs settled astride. Teague gently caresses his side, then kisses his own fingers and places them around the Outsider’s cock.

“Blackmailing a god into this, how ridiculous,” he murmurs, his black eyes blinking down to look where Teague strokes him.

“I am a master of that art.”

“You… just do it,” the Outsider succumbs, leaning down to rest his forehead against Teague’s. It would have been gentle if the Outsider’s eyes were not so hatefully gleaming. Let out of a hard grasp, his hips sway elegantly again, taking Teague fast and slick, the man’s cock reaching deep and making the Outsider tremble and moan in pleasure. Eventually, while Teague strokes him, rubs at the sensitive head and spreads pre-cum, the Outsider kisses him. It’s not gentle, but it lacks the anger that he poisoned him with earlier. In that kiss the Outsider hides many things, pleasure and begging among them. Tiniest whimpers sweeten Teague’s hearing, trembling moves make him feel higher, and his fingers around the Outsider’s cock feel the upcoming pulse of the highest peak of pleasure.

Teague breaks first, unable to restrain himself, fucking the god fast, messy. The Outsider, finally getting what he wanted so badly, comes too, though not from the merciless pounding - from the way Teague’s hand never stroked him fast, only in slowest most torturous way. They can’t let go of each other, moving more even through blinding pleasant pain, through moans and panting.

It stops only when the Outsider slaps his hand away again.

They lie side by side on the old mattress. The Outsider has his teeth on his thumb, lost to a divine thought, while Teague merely stares out of the balcony entrance. It looks out on the harbor which is full of ships. One has a vast dead whale on the hooks.

“Pleasures are not unknown to me,” the deity finally breaks the silence without sparing another look for Teague. “And they barely matter. I do not seek stress-relief, neither do I need affection. It is in the response of people that I rejoice. I did not sleep with many, and some I have come to regret - a god may have the indulgence that. Often enough, my pleasure is your liberation. Sometimes, it is a curse. Other times, a gift.”

“Which is mine?” Teague asks, looking at the Outsider. The deity says not another word, and cold shiver runs down the man’s spine.

When the dying sun is replaced by a morning rebirth of it, many things happen in the world. The little Empress is returned to the throne proper, the Lord Protector is restored by her side. The blamed ones discovered, the innocent spares.

And walking amongst the people is a newly marked person now. Teague Martin cries on the floor of an abandoned apartment building, cradling his branded hand and cursing the Outsider’s name.

It is a curse in the end, after all.


End file.
